


and just like that

by shmabs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brief Sexual Content, M/M, clint is a human disaster but sam's totally into him anyways, maria hill is done with everyone's shit and just wants a nap and maybe a foot rub, pizza dog - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2059761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shmabs/pseuds/shmabs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What the fuck,” Clint hears, but it’s not Steve or Nat or anyone else that he knows, so obviously his first instinct is to attack the guy.</p><p>The bowl of popcorn goes flying right at the intruder’s face, but he manages to dodge out of the way and grab Clint around the middle. Clint will swear up and down that the only reason he was taken down so easy was because of his injured ribs and wrist. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the stranger was smoking hot and, once Clint got a closer look at his (very attractive) face, actually kinda familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and just like that

**Author's Note:**

> title is taken from abel korzeniowski's song of the same name because I'm shit at titles and really love that song. thanks as always to holly - for betaing the fic and yelling about how much she loves sam/clint and for running the Marvel Rare Pair Exchange - seriously, she's a superhero 
> 
> I wrote this bad boy for helen-is-elsewhere who requested "sam/clint, first time sleeping together" for the Marvel Rare Pair Exchange. I hope you like it!

Clint shows up a few weeks after the whole “S.H.I.E.L.D is actually HYDRA” fiasco with a couple of cracked ribs, a pretty severe concussion and, most frustratingly for him, a sprained wrist. Of course, he wouldn’t even be in this situation in the first place if Tasha or even Steve had thought to contact him and give him a quick heads up that _all his covers were gonna be blown, cut all ties and get out now_. He knows that he shouldn’t blame them, especially since they were dealing with some pretty heavy shit at the time, but it still hurts to realize that they didn’t even think of him before throwing him (and all the other undercover agents) to the dogs. 

Now all he wants to do is go down to the shooting range and let the smooth rhythm of his bow calm the adrenaline that’s itching beneath his skin. Unfortunately, his debrief with Hill, if he can even call it that anymore since the organization he worked for is now lying in pieces at the bottom of the Triskelion, takes that plan and dumps it right in the garbage.

“You’re benched for two months Barton; and before you ask, that means your access to the shooting range is revoked until you’re cleared for active duty.”

“That’s bullshit,” he splutters, because, while that’s not the only shooting range he uses, it is the best one by far, and he never has to prove his worth with a handgun to assholes that hassle him for using a bow.

“That’s final,” Hill says, exhausted and like she’d enjoy nothing more than kicking him in his bruised ribs. Usually he would push harder, annoy her until she gives him what he wants, but this time he just can’t bring himself to do it. He’s tired and his entire body feels like a bruise and Hill doesn’t look any better.

“Fine,” he mutters (not petulantly, ok, he’s an adult), and Hill gives him a grateful smile as he hobbles his way out of the small office.

_________

He spends two days at his shithole apartment, throwing darts at an old pizza box and sleeping on the couch with his dog, before he goes completely stir-crazy. 

“Nat, hey, I’m back in the country! I dunno what you and Steve have been up to lately, other than, you know, destroying the government agency that we work – well, worked now I guess – for, but I figured I’d let you know that I’m back! And only mildly injured. Soooo yeah, gimme a call back when you can! Hawkeye out.”

“Steve, my man, what’s up? It’s Clint, back from my top secret and very dangerous mission almost completely unscathed, and figured I’d give you a call and see what you’re doing. They revoked my access to the shooting range, which is bullshit because S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t even exist anymore so they shouldn’t be able to do that, and I’ve got nothing to do so just call me when you get this I guess. Bye.”

He’s ashamed to say that those aren’t the only voicemails he leaves them, and the subsequent messages are increasingly embarrassing.

After a few hours of calling and pacing and calling and throwing darts at the pizza box (now featuring a crudely drawn portrait of Nat’s face) and calling and flicking through all seventeen channels that his shitty TV picked up and calling some more, he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to get out and do something, even if (maybe especially if) that something was ill-advised and dangerous.

_________

Picking the lock on Steve’s new apartment (something he knew about only because he had hacked into Steve’s personal records and bank statements, which he should probably feel guilty about, but whatever) was child’s play, something he could have done in his sleep, but bypassing the extra security that someone (Nat) had installed was significantly more difficult. If he wasn’t intimately acquainted with this type of system he’s sure he would be fucked. But instead he gets through with no major problems, although his sprained wrist does slow him down a little.

He’s sitting in front of Steve’s massive TV, shoving extra butter popcorn (god bless supersoldiers that don’t have to worry about eating unhealthy shit) in his face, when he hears a rattle of keys and the front door being pushed open.

“What the fuck,” he hears, but it’s not Steve or Nat or anyone else that he knows, so obviously his first instinct is to attack the guy.

The bowl of popcorn goes flying right at the intruder’s face, but he manages to dodge out of the way and grab Clint around the middle. Clint will swear up and down that the only reason he was taken down so easy was because of his injured ribs and wrist. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the stranger was smoking hot and, once Clint got a closer look, actually kinda familiar.

Getting body slammed into the floor with ribs that are still healing is incredibly painful and Clint wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. Except maybe Loki. Loki should definitely get body slammed into the floor as often as possible. Possibly every day. By the Hulk. Yeah, Clint’s gonna daydream about that on the regular now. 

But in the meantime, his ribs are screaming, his breath’s been punched out of him by a very hot almost-stranger, and he really doesn’t wanna get the shit beat out of him today. 

“Ow, fuck, Hawkeye! I’m Hawkeye! Shit, please tell me Nat’s told you about me, I really don’t feel like doing this today.”

The guy, whose name Clint vaguely remembers seeing on the news as Stan or maybe Simon, rolls off of him and stands up, going into a fighting stance, wary but not outright aggressive. Clint can work with that.

For now, Clint just ignores him and sits up, wincing at his ribs which will probably take another week to heal, so that’s great.

“ _You’re_ Hawkeye?” Clint can’t find it in himself to be offended at the incredulous tone so he just holds his arms out to display himself to maximum effect; he’s wearing tattered jeans (tattered because pizza dog decided they were delicious and Clint didn’t notice until it was almost too late to save them), an oversized t-shirt with a purple target that Kate had given him for his birthday, and what he’s pretty sure is the only pair of Hawkeye boxers in New York City, peeking out of the holes that were artfully torn into his shitty jeans by his shitty dog. He’s a goddamn mess.

“The one and only Hawkeye, at your service.” He almost goes for a mocking bow, but then his ribs decide that that’s a bad idea, so he just kinda hunches in on himself instead. This is going incredibly well. “I mean, I’m not actually at your service. I’ve got lots of other important shit to do, top secret, world-saving shit.” 

“Uh-huh,” the guy says, eyebrow raised skeptically. “And that’s why you’re stuffing your face with popcorn and watching Lord of the Rings in Steve’s apartment. Because you’ve got so much important shit to do.”

Clint can’t think of anything clever to say in response (he blames it on the concussion), so he just shrugs.

“I’m Sam by the way,” the guy, Sam apparently, tells him. “I helped Steve and Natasha a couple weeks back.”

“Yeah, I recognized you from the news. You’ve got some pretty sweet moves, flyboy. I’m Clint.”

Sam nods his head and reaches across the space between them, offering his hand.

“Sorry about tackling you.”

“Eh, you’re fine. Believe me, I’ve had worse.”

Sam looks him up and down, eyes lingering on the brace wrapped around his wrist and the still-healing bruises that the neck of his shirt has dipped down to reveal. “Yeah, I’m sure you have.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence where Clint just stands there feeling (and probably looking) dumb, before Sam shakes his head and smiles, considering.

“Y’know, I just came over to water Steve’s dying ficus and eat the rest of his cookie dough, but I don’t really have anything else to do today…would you mind if I just hung out here for a while? I haven’t watched Two Towers in forever.”

It has been said (by Natasha, the traitor) that Clint wouldn’t be able to figure out if someone was flirting with him even if they tackled him to the ground. All Clint has to say to that is: fuck you, Nat, I’m totally gettin’ some.

Well.

He might be a little too sore and a little too out of practice to actually _get some_ , but at least now he’s got a prospect.

Now he just has to play it cool. “Yeah, that’d be great – uh – I mean, fine. That’d be fine, y’know, since I’ve finished all my important superhero shit for the day.” Fuck.

“Whatever you say man. Now go make some more popcorn – I’m not eatin’ the cold shit you threw all over the floor.”

_________

Clint wakes up with a crick in his neck and dark arms wrapped firmly around his waist. He’s groggy and has to pee like a fucking racehorse, but the haze of exhaustion that’s been following him around for the past few weeks seems to have lifted, at least temporarily, which is a goddamn miracle.

He carefully pries Sam’s arms from their stranglehold on his waist and staggers to the bathroom ungracefully, feet crunching on all the popcorn they had never bothered to clean up last night. As he empties his bladder with a sigh of relief, he can’t help but think back on his night with Sam and grin like a fucking schoolboy. They had watched the rest of the Two Towers and then, instead of watching Return of the King as Clint had originally planned, they had devolved into an argument about who the best character in the series was (Clint, surprising absolutely everyone, has been an Aragorn fanboy since he first read the books while Sam was a vicious advocate for Samwise Gamgee “and no I’m not biased just because we’ve got the same name, ok, that’s a bullshit counter-argument”) which then devolved into a discussion of the merits of being a human/hobbit/elf/dwarf/wizard in Middle Earth which then devolved into some intense making out wherein Sam climbed on top of Clint, careful of his numerous injuries, and writhed on top of him, snugging their hips together and making Clint breathe out a low “oh _fuck_ ” while Sam just smirked and continued sucking bruises into Clint’s neck.

So yeah, last night was great, 10/10, something that Clint is definitely planning on repeating as soon as possible - providing that Sam’s amenable. Which Clint is like 98% sure he will be. Clint can be very persuasive when he wants to be. Especially if he uses his mouth.

There’s a rustling from the other room and Clint suddenly realizes that he’s been standing at the toilet with his dick out for like five minutes longer than needed, reminiscing on how great Sam Wilson is. Jesus christ, he’s a mess. He tucks himself back into his boxers and washes his hands with Steve’s fancy organic bar soap that makes his hands smell like lilacs before going back into the living room where Sam is now sitting up on the couch, looking fine as fuck but also like he could do with some coffee. Clint is also starting to feel the need for some good ole caffeine, so he grunts a quick, “I’m gonna make coffee,” at Sam and then makes his way into Steve’s kitchen.

Where there is no coffee.

None at all.

Not even the shitty kind that only makes one cup at a time.

He lets out what he’s not ashamed to admit is a whimper (he needs his coffee alright, this is a fucking tragedy) and leans his elbows against the counter, letting his head fall into his hands in despair. Now he has to go out to the closest coffee place (probably a Starbucks _fuck_ ) and get one of those weird jug things of black coffee that they’ll probably sweeten anyways even when he specifically tells them that he doesn’t want them to and it’s gonna take a long time and it’s gonna totally ruin the good vibe that he’s got goin’ on and, with his luck, he’ll probably also run into the tracksuited bro gang and get the shit beat out of him (again) so maybe he can go one morning without coffee. He thinks about it for a minute and then lets out a strangled groan. Fuck, he’s gonna go do it anyways.

“Man, stop your whining - I’ve got a stash of coffee stuff behind the microwave.” Clint looks up and watches in awe as Sam pads his way into the kitchen and rummages behind Steve’s shiny microwave, smiling triumphantly when he pulls out a coffee pot and some of the fancy organic blend that Clint’s always been too cheap to buy.

“I think I love you.”

Sam snorts. “Whatever. Just don’t drink out of the damn pot.” Clint starts to vehemently deny that he would ever do any such thing, but Sam cuts him off before he can do much more than open his mouth. “Don’t even try it Hawkeye - Nat told me about your weird little quirks. It takes like two seconds to get a mug and I don’t want you soiling my coffee with your germs.”

“That’s not what you were saying last night,” Clint mumbles, even though he knows it doesn’t make any sense, and searches through Steve’s cabinets until he finds a mug with Nat’s Black Widow symbol on it. He’s not sure if they (“they” being the nebulous companies that market Avengers themed merch) make Hawkeye mugs or not, but he’s a little insulted that Steve has mugs with all the Avengers symbols except his. Whatever.

A slap on the ass from Sam knocks him out of his thoughts and back into the present. The coffee’s almost ready, thank all the gods (including Thor), and Sam’s leaning against the counter, eyebrow raised and holding a mug with a very familiar target on it. Clint tries not to smile but fails miserably so he just smushes their faces together so Sam won’t see it.

“Oh, is that how it is?” Sam asks when Clint pulls back, the sweet smell of fancy coffee filling Steve’s apartment and making Clint’s mouth water.

“Well, I mean, that can be how it is. Y’know, if you’re down. I mean, if that’s how you want it to be how it is, uh, I mean, that’s how I’d like it to how - shit.”

Sam rolls his eyes and gently smacks the back of Clint’s head. “Idiot. Drink your coffee before you sprain something.”

//end//


End file.
